His Smile was Such as a Sultan Might
by SilverWind9
Summary: Gant/Lana, pre-SL9. Because we are all for crazy relationships circling around power dynamics.


**"His smile was such as a sultan might..."**

When the night's investigation had drawn to a close and they were the only two detectives left in the building, he casually pushed up from his seat removed his jacket and folded it over the back of his mahogany armchair. Stepping over to where she was standing, he had her undo and place aside his tie. Then he watched in amusement as she ran a hand down the front of his dark shirt of her own accord, freeing the first two buttons on it and tugging it open.

He told her to remove her jacket and bra—leaving only the scarf, the heels, the skirt—and this she carried out unabashed, leaving them forgotten on the cold marble of their office floor. Familiar with this routine, she lowered her head and turned around, placing her wrists together behind her back.

He bound her arms together with his tie, admiring the way her caramel brown hair swept down her back, the submission she gave to him through her stance while she still retained her self. Taking the ends of her scarf in his hand and tugging it, he lead her around his desk like an animal on a leash. Then, he pulled her close with it, took her shoulder and bent her backwards, pinning her down on the surface of his desk.

He ran his hands down the sides of her body just once before reaching up and undoing her crimson scarf. His teeth found her bare neck and he sank them in, pleased with the sound this elicited. With his mouth, his teeth, his hands, he lavished attention on her, gave her pleasure, and when her gasps and moans grew too loud he stuffed her mouth with her undergarments, wrapping her scarf across her lower face, over her mouth and nose. He kissed her fiercely then, mouth pressed to soft fabric pressed against mouth, and was pleased when he could feel her try to reciprocate.

Carefully, he lifted her up so she was resting there fully on her back on the surface of his desk. Still holding her still, he removed the glove from his right hand, set it aside, and spread apart her legs. He fingered her to orgasm there, just standing quietly over his workspace as a man would be occupied with his papers.

After her climax, she brought herself towards the edge of the desk, towards him, with flushed cheeks and a quick heaving chest and eyes still half closed from pleasure. He stood still and she stretched out, nuzzling her cheek against his crotch, pressing herself against it. He brushed her head aside, however—turned it, patting her fondly. There would be none of that tonight.

Bending over and placing one hand under her shoulders, one hand under her knees, he lifted her up as one would carry a bride, carrying her over to his chair. He sat down, and with her cradled in his arms he stroked her hair and watched her blue-gray eyes gaze up at him.

There was Trust there. Admiration. Devotion, adoration, worship.

Or perhaps it was just love?

He wondered and considered the possibilities carefully. It was almost enough to make him satisfied.

Winding his fingers around her hair, his grip tightened around her body and he leaned his head down to _breathe_ her—

And it was then that a jarringly loud tune interrupted, the ringing of a simple cellphone with a tune that was all too familiar to him by now. It was an unsettling ruckus in the cathedral-like room, echoing across the ceilings and the walls, and he had to stop everything and frown. It was the cry of a younger sister for her guardian and his Lana, his gagged, bound, obedient Lana's eyes darted towards the object then turned back to him in silent supplication. Her eyes asked permission to answer it.

Not good enough.

He let her down to the ground and untied her hands. She removed the gag herself as well as the undergarments in her mouth, and walked quickly to the discarded clothes on the floor where her phone was in its usual place, inside her right jacket pocket. She opened it up and spoke to her sister with steady words that still carried a perceptible waver of arousal. He watched her carefully as she assured the girl she would be coming home immediately.

Not good enough.

She switched off the phone and looked apologetically to him. He was certain she was sincere in her regret; he could see it in her eyes. But it wasn't good enough and though he smiled and told her not to worry, that they could do this again another day and so she should get going, it wasn't good enough and there was a bitter sting and an irritation and a hollowness inside of him. His anger slowly boiled over when she listened to him, dressed, and left.

It wasn't good enough.

She would have to do better.

He would make her his. He would make sure of it.


End file.
